


Paradise

by jdwtpa74



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdwtpa74/pseuds/jdwtpa74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most impenetrable prison is the prison of your mind.  Stolen away from Death's grasp yet again, a helpless John Shepard finds himself once more in familiar but unsettling territory.  Even with some help from unexpected places, will he be able to escape Cerberus?  More importantly, will he still be John Shepard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Mass Effect is the creative property of Bioware, a division of Electronic Arts. The characters here-in are not, for the most part, owned by me. I have merely used John Shepard and crew gently. I promise to put them back on the shelf when I’m finished playing with them.

**Paradise Chapter 1**

**"Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville"  
**

_  
_

_When the Crucible was finally unleashed, spectators deemed it the single most destructive event in galactic history except, perhaps, for the Reaper invasion it was originally intended to stop. Those of my colleagues who cared to measure such an event required three separate virtual intelligences to calculate the mechanism’s nearly unquantifiable electron volt output. As the output swept onward unshielded networks were crashed, remaining infrastructures were rendered immobile, and our one true source of mobility, the mass relays, were damaged or knocked off-line. What transpired next would involve months if not years of painstaking recovery…months and years we would not have been granted were it not for the sacrifice of one man…._

Excerpt from the journal of Doctor Brynn Cole-Taylor following her work on Project Crucible– 2186 C.E.

 

\------------------

Sol System – High Earth Orbit – The Citadel

48 hours after the Crucible…

\------------------

                _“He doesn’t look like much.”_ Hamish Burke thought to himself as he considered the bruised and battered man at his feet.

It was hard to distinguish wounds from scarred flesh, but Burke’s companion assured him they had indeed located their quarry. He scarcely moved except to take shallow, ragged breaths as the two men labored to drag him from a pile of rubble, and never opened his eyes. It was as if he’d given up the good fight and already consigned himself to the void…not something Burke would have expected from a man of John Shepard’s reputation.

                “Are you sure this is him?” Burked asked his companion again, only to earn a petulant glare.

                “Let’s drag a ton of rubble off of you, and see how good you look.” Kent Hare grumbled through his enviro-suit’s speakers. “Yes, I’m sure. Lawson maintained excellent records during Project Lazarus. From what I read in her official reports, there was certainly enough genetic material to sample.”

Burke snorted. Trust an egg-head like Hare to have read a classified report. Lazarus had been a mere rumor, something to be whispered about around the water cooler by grunts like Burke. Robbing Death of its spoils…among the normally tight-lipped cells comprising Cerberus, each vying for funding and clamoring for the Illusive Man’s attention, Lazarus had been something of a PR coupe. Even after its completion, the project’s still-classified details had achieved legendary status. At that point, actual fact was so shrouded in myth that it was an exercise in futility to try and distinguish reality from pure fiction. Cerberus was an organization that liked its secrets…or so Burke had gleaned during his two years of service. It had given him, a child who lost a grandfather during the First Contact War and in no mood for the Alliance’s alien-liberal ways, a chance to serve humanity. He’d quickly learned the path to success was keeping his head down, doing his job, and not asking too many questions. Though he’d never voiced his opinions, Burke secretly resented the scientists he seemed doomed to baby-sit. They operated under a different rule book, or at least appeared unconcerned with the one Burke lived by. It only confirmed his deeply held misgiving that scientists could not be trusted with confidences. They talked too much amongst themselves, always trying to one-up each other, and bragged more than any soldier Burke had ever known. If he weren’t encased in heavy armor, he would have spit in frustration. Egg-heads like Hare had very nearly been Cerberus’s downfall; experimenting with enemy technology they barely pretended to understand, implanting new operatives and other who’s convictions…waivered with Reaper or Geth technology. Burke silently thanked his lucky stars when, after being deemed loyal to a fault, he’d narrowly avoided that one. He ruthlessly quelled a shudder as he had watched good men and women turned into fleshy robots as soulless as the husks they professed to despise. The Reapers’ cancer had spread through their ranks virtually unhindered all the way to the top. Even as they had searched for their prize, Burke and Hare had stumbled across an unusual tableau…the bodies of a dead Alliance officer and their organization’s former leader. The Illusive Man, barely recognizable from his suave propaganda holos now covered in all split skin and circuitry, gave both men pause.

                _“There but by the grace of God go I.”_ Burke had thought privately. He had no idea what Hare’s thoughts were _“Bastard probably thinks he could’ve fixed the problem…done a better job of it.”_ He regarded the twisted remains at his feet with cool detachment once more.

                “You seem disappointed.” Hare groused, bringing Burke’s thoughts back to their present task.

                “John Shepard, Destroyer of Worlds,” Burke mused with a shrug “I guess I thought he’d be taller.”

                Hare spared him a withering look “The Commander’s had a really bad day. Here, I’ve got him stabilized; now help me get him into the stasis pod.”

Sheppard chose that moment to take another ragged breath, and blood-specked foam appeared on his lips. Burke gazed at him doubtfully, taking in all of the damage.

                Hare sighed in exasperation “If you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I swear I’ll yank the air hose from your pressure suit.”

Hare knew it was an empty threat, Burke could easily snap him in half, and he was never entirely sure just how much the bigger man restrained himself. He was no biotic, but Hare didn’t require extra sensory perception to know his hulking guard classified members of Hare’s noble profession in the same category as he might classify shit eating cattle flies. Burke apparently leveled a similar level of apathy towards their mangled prize. It would be academic in a few minutes anyway. John Shepard was dying. The fact that he’d survived this long was, to Hare, an epic miracle. It was either a testament to his implants, that Hare found remarkably still functional, or his will to live. Though he thought of himself as a purely empirical man, Hare suspected the latter answer was more likely.

                “Are you just going to stand there and let him aspirate, or are you going to help me put him in the fucking deepfreeze?” The young scientist snapped.

Burke thought it foolish pinning all their hopes on a piece of 50,000 year old salvaged Prothean technology, but carefully grabbed Shepard’s ankles anyway. With minimal effort on his part, and overly-dramatic grunts on Hare’s, they managed to lug their captive’s deadweight over to the sleek, black cylinder in question.

                _“It’ll be his coffin.”_ Burke thought cynically as he watched its doors close with a sealing hiss.

Hare immediately bent over the equipment, studying holographic displays and tinkering with various settings. Burke watched in tense expectation until the pod blazed to life. He raised his eyebrows in frank amazement as soft blue lights glowed at either end of the blunt tube, studiously ignoring Hare’s smug grin.

                “There we go,” the weedy scientist practically crowed “sleeping like a baby!”

                “Great.” Burke jeered “Now all we have to do is lug him back to our shuttle.”

Hare grimaced as he replayed the twisted, circuitous route they’d taken until Burke had procured them each a set of C-Sec enviro-suits. Even afterwards, it’d taken them the better part of five hours to activate and track down the latent homing program in Shepard’s omni-tool. It was not a trip the young scientist relished making again…gravity sled or no.

                “We should call the General and let him know we succeeded.”

                “Later,” Burke agreed “let’s get this thing out of the Citadel first without being caught. I just hope everything we’ve been through for this bastard is worth it.”

                “Oh it’ll be worth it.” Hare assured him “Shepard’s more than just a hero now. He’s a saint. I even heard the hannar are worshiping him like some kind of demi-god.”

                “And he hates Cerberus.” Burke reminded “Who’s to say he isn’t going to die when we get him back to base and thaw him out? I’m no doctor like you, but he’s in pretty rough shape.”

Hare fiddled with his omni-tool, running it over the pod once more as if to assure himself the artifact was indeed working as speculated.

                “He is in bad shape.” The young scientist agreed “In fact if I hadn’t reactivated and stabilized his implants, he would’ve likely died…again.”

Burke felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, temporarily dispelling all thoughts of loyalty “What are you talking about, what implants?”

“It’s nothing crucial,” Hare adjusted one of the pod’s controls “well…not crucial to us, but to the Commander, they are all pretty important.”

“WHAT IMPLANTS?” Burke snapped and Hare looked up in surprise to find the burly guard’s sidearm leveled at his head, sight glinting off his enviro-suit’s visor. Hare was under no illusions that the sight was trained anywhere other than directly between his eyes.  

                “What the fuck, Hare? He has goddamn Reaper-tech in him too? How is he still alive and everyone else you zombie-makers implanted dead?”

               Hare raised his hands slowly, palms outward to soothe his larger companion “I didn’t implant anyone, that wasn’t my project, you know that. We were stationed with the Tempest Cell when all that went down…and I don’t know how Shepard survived.” The calmness in his voice was only belied by his actions.

                “And that doesn’t worry you? Not one little bit? I don’t care if you implanted our squad-mates or not Hare, we found some of the shit they used. We recovered it from old dig sites and stole it from top-secret labs. We’re just as guilty!” Burke started pacing in agitation “These things….these fucking things killed millions...MILLIONS! Now they’re dead, gone forever, and the only living piece of them is inside that…corpse!”

                “I told you,” Hare soothed “he’s not dead, and we’re in no danger. John Shepard is no Reaper.”

                “You saw the Illusive Man! You saw what they did to him! Now you want to turn around and make the same mistakes over again?”

                Hare snorted derisively “The Illusive Man did that to himself, voluntarily I might add.” The young scientist collected himself and sighed “Look. If Shepard was going to turn, he’d have done it long before now. He would have done it before the Crucible was even finished. This operation was sanctioned by the General. He’s a military man like you Burke. Do you honestly think he would’ve approved it if he thought it would be bad for Cerberus?”

Burke relented for a moment, pausing in his tracks and lowering his weapon.

                “I know this is a leap of faith, it is for me too. I lost a lot of good friends when the Illusive Man had them…improved as he put it. They were lost on the operating table, but Shepard…Shepard is different. Lawson’s team took their time, they used older tech, sanitized it better…I don’t know for sure. The only thing I know is that her records indicate the Illusive Man demanded that Shepard retain his free will.”

                “Lawson is a traitorous bitch.” Burke snarled.

Hare could see the fight was leaving his companion and allowed himself to relax once more “Lawson is a traitor, but she’s a brilliant traitor. She’s also paranoid, and kept her private journal notes off the grid. Whatever her team did…whatever she did…allowed Shepard to retain his free will as instructed. He’s been watched and had every step securitized by some very powerful people. They’d have known if something was off.”

Burke grunted “What if Shepard uses that free will to finish us off once we get him patched up?”

Hare’s omni-tool flared briefly as it finished uploading a program to Shepard’s pod “Mnemonic Re-education.”

“Come again?”

“The Prothains equipped these pods with on-board VI’s.” Hare thumbed over his shoulder. “I don’t know why…maybe to keep them informed about current events while they slept, maybe for entertainment…but that’s not the point. I just finished hacking the VI in Shepard’s pod. While he’s sleeping away, the VI will slowly reprogram his subconscious. After a few months, when he’s fully healed, we’ll be thawing out Cerberus’s greatest ally.”

                “That’s…” Burke struggled for words “twisted. Do you think it’ll work?”

                Hare shrugged “Governments have been doing this for the past few centuries…Cerberus just perfected the technique. For once, studying the Reapers and how they indoctrinated their victims actually paid off.”

                “Damn.” Burke whispered. “All those lives…all that money…he better be worth it.”

                “The General seems to think so, and he’s the new boss.”

               “We better get moving then. This place won’t stay hidden for long…if we had a way of tracking Shepard, you can bet someone else does too.”  

Hare placed a protective hand once more against the pod’s surface, marveling that their plan had actually worked. Shepard was alive, and on his way to being well. He marveled at the man’s sheer determination to survive.

                “ _I wonder,”_ Hare thought _“just what he has to live for?”_

\------------------

                _I miss you Shepard…._

_Steve…._

I feel inexplicably light. I expected to feel pain, and breathe dust. I expected to smell acrid smoke or my own burnt flesh, but instead I'm feeling light as a feather, breathing a warm salt wind and smell...flowers? That can't be right. The last thing I remember was an explosion and being flung outwards like a kid’s toy. I certainly felt like I had removable parts as I careened off walls. “John Shepard, Action Hero!” that’s me. If I survive this, maybe I’ll retire and market the idea, bet I’d make a fortune. A mirthless chuckle escapes my lips. I find no humor in my situation, no gratitude, only a brief acknowledgement that I scrapped by yet again when so many others did not. In reality I’m as crushed as if the entire Citadel thundered down on top of me. I may be alive, but I am no doubt broken.

 _“You did good son.”_ Anderson’s last words to me, gargled in pain, ring in my ears.

I am broken, and this time there is no miracle repair, no implants, no second chance that will put John Shepard “Action Hero” back together. I feel as if I’m 15 and lost my father all over again. I’ve made too many sacrifices, lost too many friends. Though I never admitted it to anyone, I felt a piece of me die with each of them, and now? Now I don’t know if there’s enough of me left to carry on. The tropical breeze drifts over me again, this time bringing sound along in its wake and stirring me from my moribund thoughts. I hear…waves? Is that the sound of waves breaking? Why don’t I hear the groaning of metal beams or spitting wires? Instead, somewhere far overhead, I hear a gull hacking out its dry, laughing cry. Ironic that so many people call it “laughter” when I always thought a gull’s cry sounded mournful.

                “What the hell?” I grumble to myself, curiosity finally getting the better of me, and I crack my eyes open.

I instantly regret my decision; white-hot daggers of light stab through my retinas, and into my brain.

                “FUCK!” my eyelids snap shut of their own accord, as twin blue spots dance before me in the soothing gloom.      

Why am I staring into the sun on what appears to be a glaring bright day? Where is the Citadel? Where is the carnage? Icy fingers of dread tickle up and down my spine. Am I indoctrinated? Is this a Reaper trick? They couldn’t get me by pulling my strings like a puppet, so now they’re breaking my mind? While I’m busy sniffing flowers, is my body wreaking havoc on the very people I’d sworn to protect? Is Earth in ashes? What happened to the Normandy? What about….

“Steve.” I whisper his name between my clenched teeth, and suddenly I’m very much awake as I feel my heart twist….

Where the hell am I? I turn my head to the side, determined not to repeat my earlier mistake of looking directly into the sun, before cracking my eyes open once more. I do so slowly, allowing nature to take its course and my vision to adapt. Part of me wants to hurry, to engage this mystery right now, but I quell this instinct knowing it will only lead to more immediate pain. As my surroundings come into focus, and I dare to look around, it becomes apparent to me why I feel as light as a feather. I’m wearing nothing but a small white swimsuit, and my frame (surprisingly whole and unblemished) is draped over a wooden Adirondack chair. I reflect it’s a good thing that a few years of group showers in the Alliance has stripped me of any lingering modesty since my current skin-clinging apparel leaves very little to the imagination. My chair’s surface is unpolished but gently worn with time. There are no splinters, and it feels naturally smooth as I shift my weight in attempt to shed my post-wakeup lassitude. Turning my attention to my surroundings, I immediately note that I am surrounded by pristine sand, as fair and white as powdered sugar that glitters and stretches to my left before disappearing around a bend. Even without craning my neck, I can see it bordering a riot of palm trees, hibiscus, plumeria, sea grapes and other fragrantly tangled beach-growth which, in turn, leads back into denser jungle foliage. Turning my head to the left, I see more of the same, except the jungle rises into craggy mountainous headlands before shearing off into azure blue water that forms my other natural barrier. It rolls in gentle waves against the sand, carrying on Mother Nature’s own cycle of destruction and renewal. I shudder again, struggling to recall indoctrination’s creeping, icy feel. There’s no darkness here in my present surroundings, no sense of perversion. Taking stock, I feel in control of my faculties, and have no undue desire to obey anything greater than myself…so Reaper influence seems unlikely. If anything, I’m forcibly reminded of my childhood home on Mindoir. My parents’ home, our living cube, overlooked a beach just like this on one of the tiny garden world’s archipelagos…euphemistically called “micro-continents” by our colony’s geological survey team. It all looks so hauntingly familiar….

_“Concentrate, Johnny.” My mother looks up from the dinner she is preparing, quirking one auburn brow as she pointedly tries to draw my attention back to my homework._

_I glower at the holographic puzzle spinning lazily in front of me, a cube tipped on its pointed end with a pulsing red orb at its heart. Geometric lines run over the cube’s surface in confounding designs and I allow a growl of frustration to escape the back of my throat._

_“This is impossible.” I grumble with my voice newly deepened by puberty._

_“It’s not impossible. You’re just making it more complicated than it needs to be.”_

_“Easy for you to say,” I snark “you’re a cryptographer. You probably do these things for fun.” I’m in full blown pout mode now. “Why does Ms. Spinnaker make these so difficult?”_

_My mother smiles indulgently, she’s becoming used to my adolescent tantrums “Doesn’t she teach Advanced Placement Critical Thinking? I think it supposed to be difficult, otherwise it would just be plain old thinking.”_

_It’s hard to tell if she’s being serious or not. Ever try to read a professional spy? Ever try to read a professional spy when you’re 15 and she pays your allowance? My mother looks at me blandly for a moment before winking and cracking a smile._

_“This is boring!” I protest, not yet ready to concede the point “Everyone at school knows the only reason I’m in AP classes is because dad is the colony’s lead civil engineer. Can I just take the skimmer over to Kyle’s house and do this later?”_

_“You’re in AP classes because you earned it. Critical thinking is important Johnny.” My mother gently admonishes me, giving me that certain look …the one that could stop a Krogan Warlord in mid-battle charge “It’s knowing when to turn left while everyone else is turning right. Believe me, when it comes down to the really important decisions…critical thinking just might save your life.”_

_I know there are things she can’t tell me about her life before…well…me, but I want so badly to know. I wish I had the chance…I wish…._

                I wake up with a start, surprised that I’ve fallen asleep once more. A thin film of sweat coats my skin, but it has nothing to do with the heat. I will never forget Mindoir. That would be like forgetting something that’s part of my DNA, but I haven’t thought of home in a very long time, at least just to sit and remember. Why now? Is it this strange place?

“Where the hell am I?” I repeat to myself once more. “How did I get here, and…DAMN that’s cold!”

Something icy splashes against the pressure point between my thumb and forefinger causing my right hand to twitch reflexively. I turn to stare that the remains of a frozen drink, perfect in this setting but still so incongruous in my mind’s eye.

                “This isn’t right!” I growl under my breath. “None of this is right!”

                “Good morning Commander,” a voice behind me greets cordially, quietly like people do in hospitals…or funeral homes “are you feeling ok?”

The voice-owner moves into view, dressed appropriately for a hospital in her white and orange scrubs, but not so much for the beach.

                “Where am I? Where is my crew?”

She smiles at me indulgently even as just a touch of sorrow pinches the corners of her clear green eyes “It’s ok Commander, you’re safe now. Everyone is safe.”

                “Safe?” my head is spinning. I want so desperately to make sense of her words, to equate them with my new surroundings. She has answers. I have questions, but right now I can’t seem to make a connection. This feeling of disorientation, of making decisions in a vacuum, is novel to me. I haven’t felt this way since basic training.

               “Yes,” my new companion assures in her soothing voice “safe.”

                I frown, embarrassed to admit my shortcoming “Uh…look, Miss, I know it seems like we have some kind connection here…but right now I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

                The visitor peers at me for a moment, then nods to herself “Don’t worry, it’ll pass. This is your first full day off of medication. Some confusion is normal as your brain chemistry re-adjusts.”

                “Medication?” I grasp at straws of memory, trying to recall being saved, let alone drugged into oblivion “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

                My guest tucks a strand of red hair behind the shell of her right ear a little too self-consciously “That’s not a bad thing, trust me. When the search teams found you, you were in pretty rough shape. Not just physically, though God only knows how you survived your injuries, but mentally too. You wouldn’t let them get close to you. They had to sedate you, and keep you that way during recovery. You were…well…that’s a discussion for another time.”

                I look at her mystified, listening to her describe my actions but sounding like a complete stranger to my own ears “Another time?”

                “Your body may have recovered,” the mystery woman gently admonished “but we still need to work on some things with your mind.”

                “My mind?”

                “You’ve blanked out a lot of experiences Commander, and your psyche has had to deal with more destruction than anyone should ever have to. That can manifest its self in some pretty aggressive behavior. We just want to make sure that you have a comfortable and quiet setting to come to terms with this mental trauma. It’s the least we can do after your service to humanity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just need to go complete your intake”

                I blink, trying to quell the sudden stab of anxiety her imminent departure lances through me “Wait! I have questions.”

                She pauses as she turns and frowns slightly “I’m not sure I can answer everything for you right now. Please understand, you’ve been through a horrible event and it’s going to take some time for you to recover. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that process. The best thing you can do now is sit back, clear your head, drink your juice, and enjoy the view.”

                “Ok,” I agree with her “but only on one condition. You answer two questions for me before you go.”

                She mulls my offer, narrowing her eyes at me in thought “Deal, but I have a condition of my own. I will only answer your two questions if I think they won’t have any significant impact on your recovery at this point.”

                “Fair enough.” I concede “Ok, question number one…where am I?”

                “You are in the Pathways to Wellness program and this is our Paradise treatment facility.” She smiles mischievously “Lucky you.”

                Her answer brings to mind about a dozen more questions, but a deal’s a deal and I know my time is limited “Who are you?”

                “My name is Jane Shepard, I’m your therapist.”

                “That can’t be a coincidence.” I reply, stymied once more.

                “Pathways attempts to match patients with therapists that share some commonalities. It helps build stronger bonds during the wellness process.” She smiles once more “That’s just a fancy way of saying we use it as an ice-breaker. Now sit back and relax Commander. We’ve got a long road together. There will be plenty of time to ask more questions.”

I watch her as she leaves me with more questions than answers. At least I do know some things I didn’t know before.

                “Paradise.” I murmur under my breath, turning once more to gaze out at the ever-moving ocean.           

\------------------

Earth – Vancouver, British Columbia – False Creek Outpost

8 months later…

\------------------

                Rain transformed the streets of downtown Vancouver into mirrored washes of holographic color, but if James Vega found any of it beautiful, he gave no outward sign. He walked with purpose among the late evening crowds, head down, massive shoulders bowed, and meaty fists shoved into his jacket pockets. Signs of renewal, of a city coming back to life, were everywhere. It should have given him hope, he knew, but this morning’s memorial ceremony was still fresh in his mind. It had taken the Normandy six months to limp back to a home they still barely recognized, to news they had all come to expect but still dreaded. Vega felt his throat tightening with emotion, and he stopped for a moment to let the feeling slowly drain away. Where he was going…who he was going to see…it wouldn’t be good to let his personal sorrow run free. Other pedestrians swarmed around him, paying him no more mind than any of the dozen or so window shoppers staking out their piece of sidewalk territory. If they’d know who he was, what he’d done, their reactions might have been significantly different. Since her arrival almost a month ago the Normandy had taken on a shrine-like quality, the exploits of her crew and talented young commander were recited like tales of mythic heroes. There were even rumors that Shepard had been deified by the hannar. Being a betting man, James suspected they were probably true. He took a moment more to swallow his heartache before starting on his way again. Fall made the air around him crisp, a novelty to someone who grew up in Southern California, but he shoved any though of enjoyment aside. Even if he’d been in the mood nothing could ease the worry knotting his stomach as he came to a final stop outside of Doolin’s Irish Pub. A modest line had formed, no doubt drawn to the warmly glowing interior and raucous laughter that spilled out into the night. An Irish rill coursed through all of it like a ribbon, starkly traditional, tying everyone together. Had he come here under different circumstances, Vega thought he might have joined in. Certainly his new-found celebrity status would have been welcomed by the pub owners, but tonight was about something…about someone…else. Tonight, the normally outgoing Marine was glad for darkness and anonymity. He pulled his tactical cap lower over his forehead as he made his way inside, earning only a few cursory glances and one hard look from Doolin’s bouncers. The former he could do nothing about, nor did he worry about it as no one called out his name or tried to take his picture. The latter was easily assuaged by quickly flashing his Alliance ID before being nodded through. Scents of peat, hoppy beer, and fried sausages mingling with cologne and perfume assaulted Vega’s nose as he edged his way gently through the crowd. He made his way to the back, towards the bar, before being motioned over by a grizzled looking bartender.

“Thanks for coming,” the older man extended his hand towards Vega “Tom Finnegan.”

“James Vega, thanks for calling. So where is he?”

Finnegan inclined his head towards a lone figure halfway slumped over the bar. Vega felt the knot in his stomach rocket to his chest.

“Shit.”

“Didn’t feel right,” Finnegan muttered, idly polishing a whisky tumbler “tossing a member of the Normandy crew out of my bar.”

Vega nodded, not trusting himself to speak through a throat gone tight with emotion once more.

“I know who he is, Mister Vega,” Finnegan continued “and I know what that medal is he’s got in the box in front of him. Don’t see too many Medals of Honor these days.” He finished polishing the glass and looked up at Vega with one beady eye “I don’t turn nobody away from my bar, and I don’t ask for employment credentials. That includes employees of the media. Take him home, Mister Vega. Don’t ask me how I know his story…that’s an old bartender trick…but take him home. Last thing that young fellow needs right now is his heartache being made public. It’s not right.”

Vega didn’t know how to thank the old man properly, but made a mental note to comeback and buy the whole damn place a round once everything was settled. He settled instead on murmuring his thanks and walking over to a bleary-eyed Steve Cortez.

“Hey Esteban,” he greeted quietly “heard you was closing this piece down.”

Cortez looked up at him frowning as he obviously struggled to place Vega’s face. A moment later, his frown drifted into a boozy grin as he reached out and clapped the larger man on the shoulder.

“JIM!” he grinned “Come to have a drink with us?”

Vega quirked an eyebrow “Us?”

“Me ‘n Sheppard!” Cortez motioned with his empty shot glass towards a small black velvet case and the gleaming medal nestled within.

Vega glanced around, noting that a few people had stopped to look at Steve in curiosity.

 _“Everybody loves a happy drunk.”_ Vega reflected sourly before stepping closer to Cortez and lowering his voice “Esteban…come on man. Let’s….”

“Yeah!” Cortez interrupted “Let’s have one more drink!” He raised his empty glass “To John Shepard. Bravest son of a bitch I ever knew! He’ll be missed.”

Steve thumped his glass back down on the bar, hunched over once more and silent. Vega noted that the surreptitious glances being thrown their way had evolved into whispers. He swore quietly under his breath and looked back at Cortez who’s shoulders had started to tremble.

“God I miss him.” Steve whispered, choking on his nearly-quiet sobs. “God I miss him.”

“Shh….” Vega draped one massive arm over his friend, hugging him close, and sweeping Shepard’s Medal of Honor into his jacket with the other. “Come on mijo, let’s get you home. You’re gonna need to sleep this one off.”

Steve leaned into him, gripping the leather of his coat tight as the two of them made their way back into the night.

“I’d give anything Jim,” Steve husked out “just for one more moment with’em. S’not fair.”

Vega remained silent as he continued to support his friend, and wallow in his own private grief.

“S’not fair.” Steve insisted again, and Vega couldn’t have agreed more.

 

_Reader’s Note: Hope it was worth the wait guys. Please let me know how you like the new version. P.S., an anonymous preview of Chapter 2 to anyone who can tell me the historical significance of Burke and Hare ;)._


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